The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  I laughed softly. “I don’t think butterflies bite, Jake.”

  He finally turned to me with a wry smile. “Don’t they? Because I feel a sting each time I reach out. And then the butterfly takes off and I don’t know if I’ve been poisoned somehow because my heart starts to feel tight and I have trouble breathing.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Jake—for his helplessness as he fell hard and fast for someone he probably never expected to fall for.

  I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Maybe that butterfly needs to know it’s not just the chase for you.”

  Jake frowned and opened his mouth to say something but my cell phone, which was resting on top of my clutch on the breakfast bar, suddenly rang.

  B.B.B. was flashing on the call display along with a picture Brandon’s sleeping face.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “It’s Brandon,” I told Jake as I snatched up my phone and clutch. “I have to take this.”

  I looked around to find a quiet spot in the apartment but every nook and cranny was crammed full of people.

  Rushing through the door, I stepped out, nearly colliding with a bunch of guys who were swaying unsteadily on their feet, knocking over empty beer bottles with a softball as if the short hallway were a bowling lane.

  I grimaced as they erupted into rowdy cheers just as a couple of beer bottles fell back on the carpeted floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops showed up in less than an hour. What started out as a relaxing party had quickly turned into a frat-party nightmare. The neighbors were going to lose their freaking minds and call the cavalry.

  I neatly dodged the drunks and headed for the small windowed alcove at one end of the hallway that overlooked a portion of the side street that ran along the condo complex.

  The first call had already gone to voicemail after it rang a few times and I was just about to dial his number when the phone rang again.

  “Hey,” I greeted softly, aware that my heart was beating rapidly.

  “Hello, love,” Brandon greeted back in his warm, rich voice.

  I haven’t heard from him all day and I’d resisted calling. The most I’d done was send him a couple of short text messages telling him to take care.

  I told myself he was busy with an emergency in his hands. I didn’t want to get in the way of it. In the end, it really came down to one thing.

  This mystery about Nicole and Zach was like a very large elephant sitting between us and we were having trouble tiptoeing around it. I was crossing my fingers it wouldn’t heave over and crush us both under its weight.

  There was a long silence before Brandon let out a weary sigh. “I miss you.”

  The cautionary fence (were fences ever non-cautionary?) around my heart crumbled easily enough at his gruff yet tender admission. “I miss you too.”

  “So much that you resisted calling me all day when you usually ring me a few times when I’m at work, even if just to sing me a few lines from a song you're listening to?” he asked, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

  I grinned and pushed myself up the foot-deep ledge by the window so I could sit. “I thought you didn’t like that. You always told me it gave you last-song syndrome.”

  “It does but I usually just bear it,” he answered. “If it’s a way to hear your voice, I don’t mind.”

  I bit my lip as I felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry for not calling. I thought you probably didn’t want to be bothered when you’re in the middle of a crisis. How is that anyway?”

  Another long, exhausted sigh. “Not bad. We only had a couple of injuries and none that are life-threatening, thank God. Just some shallow burns and a fractured leg when the employee slipped and fell while rushing from the recovery boiler. Those people are being looked after and will be fully compensated while they're off recuperating."

  I smiled, relieved. “That’s good to know. How about the mill? Was the damage too great?”

  “No, not really. The fire had been localized and the fire crew was able to get it under control in an hour," he said. "Once the inspection is completed tomorrow, we'll know what needs fixing. It looks worse than it really is but we should be able to get everything replaced and restored to full capacity in no time."

  "When will you be back in town then?" I asked hopefully.

  "In another day or so." He paused. "I want to be home right now with you, eating popcorn and watching TV. Instead, I'm sitting in the back of a car in a grimy heap."

  I frowned. "It's pretty late. Are you just getting back to your hotel? Have you eaten? At all?"

  He laughed softly. "You're such a mother hen, Charlotte."

  I rolled my eyes even though I knew he couldn't see it. "No, just merely a wife. You better eat something when you get to your hotel, Brandon. In fact, as soon as we hang up, I'll personally call the hotel to send up some room service for you."

  "Don't worry about it, I'll call them myself and get something brought up," he assured me, amusement still lingering in his voice.

  When he spoke again though, I couldn't mistake the longing in his words. "You know, tonight's the first night we're spending apart since we got married."

  "I know," I said quietly, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window and glancing down the street absently.

  "I hate it," Brandon said, sighing again. "I think I'll take you with me next time. The thought of going to bed without you next to me is very unsettling."

  I grinned. "Petrified that I won't be there to scare the boogeyman away?"

  He laughed. "Well, there's that. He definitely can't stand being in the room listening to you snore."

  "I don't snore!" I protested.

  "Yes, you do," he insisted. "Just little girly snores here and there."

  I sniffed in indignation. "I occasionally get a bit of a clogged respiration but that doesn't equate to snoring."

  "If you say so," he said, sounding still very much unconvinced. "I know I'll miss those cute little snores when I go to bed later. How about you? Will you miss me?"

  "I'll surely miss having to steal the sheets back and throw off your trunk of a leg when it clips around my thighs and cuts off my circulation."

  He chuckled. "Sounds like you're going to miss me sorely, then."

  I couldn't help but smile. "I will miss you but I don't even know what time I'll get to bed. By the time we're done here, it might be morning already."

  "Why, where are you?" he asked.

  I glanced around just as the drunks bowling at the end of the hallway roared in victory again and started to do belly fives (you know, when guys jump in the air and bump each other's bellies like a high five). "Um, we're kind of in a party. I went with Jake and your sisters."

  "Oh." His tone of voice instantly became neutral. "And where is this party?"

  "Battery Wharf—very prestigious area," I hastened to reassure him just as another round of hoots and laughter erupted when one of the guys landed on his ass on the floor. It seemed that gravity had a stronger pull on his belly—you could tell by the way it was hanging out and downwards from the waistband of his jeans.

  "It sounds a little rowdy for a staid society party,” Brandon remarked flatly.

  I bit my lip, curling a hand over my phone to keep the ruckus out. “Well, it’s not exactly one of those.”

  His silence spoke volumes.

  “It’s a college party, okay?” I relented with an exasperated sigh. “It’s by someone your sisters and I went to high school with.”

  “A college party,” Brandon repeated hollowly. “Let me guess—beer kegs, joints, girls too wasted to know who they’re going home with and guys too sloshed to be smart enough to stay out of trouble.”

  I glanced at the group of drunk guys again who were now forming some kind of cheerleading pyramid in the middle of the hallway, howling loudly in laughter as they staggered off each other and fell on the floor.

  “No beer kegs—just these fancy beer fountains that work like sprinklers. I haven’t
seen anyone smoking a joint yet—and I have no interest in seeking them out. The girls still all seem coherent enough to be discriminating about the company they keep. The boys—well, they do seem... rambunctious, if you could call them that.”

  I could hear Brandon’s sharp exhalation on the other line and I pictured him running an agitated hand down his face. “Yes, and do you know what rambunctious behavior leads to in rowdy college parties? Riots. The kind that involves police and kids getting arrested for underage drinking. For God’s sakes, Charlotte, get the hell out of there!”

  I bristled at his domineering tone. “Anna needed a distraction—and so did I. We’re here but we’re not partying as hard as others are. Besides, Jake’s with us.”

  “Jake? You think Jake’s going to keep you out of trouble?” Brandon asked in an incredulous tone. “He was able to drink anyone under the table since he was fourteen! He was the ringleader for all kinds of stupid things in parties that people would be horrified to remember doing the next day. Jake’s not going to think anything of it if you and my sisters are passed out flat on the floor.”

  I frowned. “Brandon Maxfield, don’t be mean like that! Jake’s your best friend and you know that he cares a lot about me and your sisters. I assure you that the Jake you remember from college is nowhere in attendance tonight. He’s as surly as a sentinel, scaring off troublemakers and doing his best to keep your sisters from getting sauced even at the risk of incurring bodily injury from them. He’s too busy watching over us to get drunk. We’ve been here almost three hours and he’s still holding the same beer bottle. It probably tastes like warm piss now.”

  A pause and then Brandon roared out laughing.

  I grinned. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it all under control, babe. We might even do a Cinderella and take off in our pumpkin carriage by midnight. There’s a small window when people turn from being amusingly drunk to an embarrassing spectacle. I’d prefer to skip the latter.”

  His laughter slowed to soft chuckles. “I wish I’m there to see it. If there are any females who can manage Jake, you and my sisters would definitely be it.”

  “Of course. We’re used to overbearing, autocratic males trying to manage us in vain,” I answered impishly, my eyes drawn to a fancy black town car that pulled up by the quiet side street.

  “Alright, I’ll trust you to extricate yourselves out of this party when you’ve had enough clean fun and before the cops come busting down the doors,” Brandon said with a resigned sigh. “I often forget that you’re young and that many of the things I remember from years ago in my life are things you’ve yet to experience yourself.”

  I glanced again at the group of drunks by the end of the hallway as one of them slumped to the wall with a loud thud after stupidly letting his friends coax him to spin himself around without falling in a dizzy stumble.

  “Trust me. There are a lot of things I’m happy to miss,” I said wryly, turning my attention back to the town car sitting idly by the side street—probably waiting to pick up someone. “I don’t need to experience some very highly idiotic things myself to know that they’re a bad idea—like couch-surfing.”

  Brandon laughed. “I’m glad I can rely on your sense of self-preservation, babe, whenever you find it convenient to prioritize it. Call me when you get home, okay?”

  “I’ll text you because you might be sleeping then and after the day you’ve had, I don’t want to disturb your rest,” I told him.

  “As if I can sleep now,” he retorted. “Just call me. Maybe after you slip under the sheets and the lights are off. I can describe to you in vivid detail the things I’d imagine myself doing to you.”

  I felt myself flush even though Brandon couldn’t see it. “If you’re lucky. I’ll call, okay? But just to say good night and I love you. I’d rather you sleep with sweet dreams instead of blue balls.”

  “Seeing to my comfort, as usual,” he said and I could picture out his grin. “Alright, enjoy the rest of the party. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I was still smiling and staring down at Brandon’s sleeping face on his profile photo on my phone when a movement below by the street caught my eye.

  I saw a flash of leopard print and a glint of shiny hair caught by the light from the lamp posts that surrounded the side of the building.

  My eyes narrowed.

  I’ve seen that feline print tonight—on someone appropriately catty.

  I pressed up my nose against the glass as I watched Bessy look left and right before sauntering across the street like she was doing the catwalk (pun intended).

  The window in the backseat rolled down as she approached the car but I couldn’t see the person she was talking to. She leaned down, her arms braced against the roof of the car, her body stretched out provocatively.

  After a few minutes, she stiffened and straightened away from the car, slinging on the metallic strap of her evening bag over her shoulder. Then she turned around and started walking away.

  The car door opened and a man emerged, dressed in black, his stride purposeful, almost mechanic.

  He grabbed her by the elbow and whipped her around to face him—and it wasn’t gentle.

  I watched the drama unfold, Bessy playing hard to get as she turned her head this way and that, avoiding the man, but his grip on her elbow didn’t loosen one bit as he dragged her up against him, his other hand catching her voluminous hair and yanking it roughly to tilt her head up to him.

  His face angled up and the light from the street lamps caught it.

  I sucked in a breath.

  Holy, bloody hell.

  If there were thunderclouds sailing through the sky at night, you wouldn’t normally see them until lightning flashed.

  It felt the same way, recognizing Don LeClaire’s face, inches away from Bessy’s, who happened to be his wife’s cousin.

  And if I had any doubt in my mind that their embrace was a little too intimate to be purely familial, it was demolished when he sank his mouth against hers and kissed her hard. And she seemed to be literally pouring herself into him by the way she locked her arms around his neck.

  I blinked several times, hoping that it would somehow jar me out of this hallucination but it was like watching a train wreck in high definition.

  The kiss lasted mere seconds before Don turned around and dragged Bessy behind him, heading for the car.

  He practically crammed her in through the door before getting in right after her.

  I sat back, still reeling, hearing the blood rush to my ears as I watched the town car peel out of the shadows and drive off into the night.

  Any way I looked at it, I couldn’t find any other possible conclusion other than Don LeClaire and Bessy Mitchell having an illicit affair.

  My stomach churned at the idea.

  Layla’s overly composed face and flat eyes as she stood next to her husband flashed in my mind. My heart tightened at the thought of the betrayal happening right under her nose.

  Bessy Mitchell was my least favorite person in the world but I felt a strong pang of worry for her at the thought of her carrying on with a man who inspired not one iota of kindness in my mind.

  Two women—neither harboring any charitable feelings for me—caught in an ugly, treacherous web of deceit spun by a man who brought into mind spiders and scorpions and all things crawly and nightmare-inducing.

  They say ignorance is bliss and I’ve always disagreed. Now, I see their point.

  I sat there, still contemplating the situation, when louder than normal sounds started coming from Stacey’s unit.

  I bolted from the window and started racing down the hallway when the door of one of the two other units in this wing swung open and an angry-looking middle-aged woman poked her head out.

  “I’ve had enough of your antics!” she screamed at us, drawing my attention and that of the drunks by the hallway. “I’m not putting up with this for another second! The cops are on their way, you morons!�
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  I winced as she slammed the door shut, barely pausing before rushing back inside the unit.

  I managed to jump back in time to avoid the limp body that crumpled on the floor just by the door right after I stepped inside.

  The guy was doubled over, howling in pain and clutching his stomach, and looming over him, sweaty and murderous, was Jake, who was conveniently ignoring Tessa’s little fists that were pummeling his back as she yelled at him to stop.

  “If you even dare breathe the air around her, I will dismember you,” Jake was saying to the man. “Do you understand?”

  “He was just asking for my phone number, you madman!” Tessa was fairly shouting at him now. “You didn’t have to rearrange his organs for it!”

  Jake glanced at her, eyes seething. “I rearranged them because he had a hand up your dress!”

  I groaned and glanced around the room for Anna. She was sagged against the wall, watching the scene, smiling even if her gaze was slightly glazed and unfocused.

  “As much as I would love to sit here and watch such a cliche scene unfolding in real life, we don’t have time,” I said loudly, clapping my hands to draw everyone’s attention. "The cops are on their way.”

  Well.

  That was an expedient way to clear the room.

  If only the mess ended there.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Haunted Hearts

  It was a rainy morning.

  Despite getting home late last night—just a little over past midnight—and spending another hour on the phone with Brandon who refused to go to sleep without a long, hushed and intimate conversation—I was still wired.

  The late-night phone call with Brandon relaxed me after my misadventures from the party, draining most of my adrenaline and replacing it with warm, comforting languor as he murmured achingly sweet things to me last night.

  It felt odd that despite the physical distance separating us, we were more comfortable talking to each other in the dark, in different states, than we have been lately, despite being in the same room. It had been like that since the Nicole and Zach mystery cropped up.